Favorite Non-fiction: Angela's Ashes

  While it is not a short story, my favorite non-fiction work I have ever read is Angela's Ashes by Frank McCourt. The story depicts McCourt growing up in poverty in Ireland with his family, and discusses the struggles of living without proper parental care and resources. This book is my favorite for a multitude of reasons. I think it is truly inspiring to read about someone being able to leave a horrible living situation and be able to be successful in life. Additionally, McCourt's style of writing was truly unique. He had an excellent narrative voice, and never used quotation marks when writing dialogue which I found fascinating. I got to listen to this book via audio book, which made the experience feel more authentic, as it felt like he was telling me his story directly. I feel like reading this book gave me a new perspective of how living in poverty is. While it is obviously different for everyone, I grew up as a privileged middle-class American, and I will never truly understand. I would recommend that everyone reads this book, as I think it is an important and unique work of literature that can give people a new perspective.

Excerpt:

First Communion day is the happiest day of your life because of The Collection and James Cagney at the Lyric Cinema. The night before I was so excited I couldn't sleep till dawn. I'd still be sleeping if my grandmother hadn't come banging at the door.

Get up! Get up! Get that child outa the bed. Happiest day of his life an' him snorin' above in the bed.

I ran to the kitchen. Take off that shirt, she said. I took off the shirt and she pushed me into a tin tub of icy cold water. My mother scrubbed me, my grandmother scrubbed me. I was raw, I was red.

They dried me. They dressed me in my black velvet First Communion suit with the white frilly shirt, the short pants, the white stockings, the black patent leather shoes. Around my arm they tied a white satin bow and on my lapel they pinned the Sacred Heart of Jesus, a picture with blood dripping from it, flames erupting all around it and on top a nasty-looking crown of thorns.

Come here till I comb your hair, said Grandma. Look at that mop, it won't lie down. You didn't get that hair from my side of the family. That's that North of Ireland hair you got from your father. That's the kind of hair you see on Presbyterians. If your mother had married a proper decent Limerick man you wouldn't have this standing up, North of Ireland, Presbyterian hair.

She spat twice on my head.

Grandma, will you please stop spitting on my head.

If you have anything to say, shut up. A little spit won't kill you. Come on, we'll be late for the Mass.